Tuesday, September 2, 2008

This Song Has No Title (You have to be an EJ fan to understand...)

I just spent twenty minutes on a blog reading posts about the merits or disadvantages of something called “Cowboy Dressage.”

Let me tell you, I don’t want to know.

“I don’t want to know” is a common theme with me. I see someone on the street, they have on a costume/uniform/organ grinders monkey on their shoulder; They might be wearing a sign/fright wig/stripes with plaids and polka dots and carrying a telescope/candle/component stereo complete with turntable and tuner, and I say to myself “Whatever’s going on, I don’t want to know.”

Okay, the last one is real. Two guys were walking down the street one night carrying a turntable, tuner and speakers. I said, “Hey, you know they make these things called ‘Boom Boxes’ now and you don’t need a long extension cord to listen to music.” It occurred to me later that we could have been witnessing a burglary, but then again, “I don’t want to know.”

I do have an addendum I use the with “I don’t want to know.” It’s titled “He/She/They must have lost a bet.” So when one of our drivers showed up at South Gate with the most hideous looking “cowboy” hat on that it makes him look like the Quaker Oats guy, and someone turned and asked me “What’s with the hat?” I said, “I don’t want to know. He must have lost a bet.”

Two weeks ago The Fabulous Todd had a trainee that we just knew would be a 95%er, so I must admit that our training of her was lackadaisical and sub-par. At the barn his trainee, while picking Libby’s feet, was casually tossed across the barn by a flick of Libby’s hoof. The trainee landed on her butt, which broke her phone. Todd, braiding Libby’s tail, inquired if she was all right, never once letting go of the braid.


Because he would have had to start all over again, that’s why. Tail braiding is labor intensive, and it’s not like we get paid extra to do it, either. It just keeps the tail out of the poop bag and then when the horse you’re driving gets all pissy about something and wants to exact some revenge they can’t flick shit in your face.

Like they usually do.

Upon telling me the story I agreed, I would have done the same thing. Why? Because there is an inherent assumption of liability one agrees to when they work with horses, and you have to pay attention to what’s going on or risk a boo-boo. Within one of The Fabulous Todd’s first few weeks Jerry stepped on his little toe, turning it a vibrant shade of purple. Last week Jim stepped on Kar’s foot and broke it. Once, many years ago, my Appaloosa, L.P. Prairie Dreamer, “Butt Head” for short, kicked me in the jaw, narrowly missing my throat, teeth, eye, etc. and left me with 11 stitches as a reminder that horses are dangerous.

Saturday night a front blew in and the wind kicked up to gale force gusts for a while. Jerry, who I was driving that evening, suddenly saw monsters everywhere and would jump at a piece of newspaper crossing the pavement in front of him. This was particularly jovial as the train was passing us and I thought we were both going to meet Jesus. Luckily the carriage was empty and I kept Jerry from committing a double murder/suicide. But still, it happened the same night that:

1) I was propositioned by two girls (which would have been very complimentary if they hadn’t both been incredibly drunk)

2) Jerry, the horse, was propositioned by a male human. (Jerry is neither gay nor interested in a cross-species LTR. Come to think of it I’m not either.)

3) An idiot decided to play “Go around the carriage by driving on the train tracks to pass it while the Trax train is coming” which is truly an imbecilic move because A. it could get you killed, B. It could get ME killed, which is much higher on my “Not To Do” list, and C. TRAINS CAN’T SWERVE! This all after Stace sent me that link to the carriage horse that ran amuck in New York.

(Slave Driver waves to Stace sitting in the sunny state of Hawaii and hollers “Yeah, you’ll be the jealous one the first time I post pictures of me & ~A~ skiing this season…”)

Oh, yes, and for anyone that wants to know what the definition of “Pulling a Stace” is, drop me an email.

Of course you might want to follow my lead and say to yourself:

“I don’t want to know, she probably lost a bet.”

And now I must go and chase the Free-Range Children out of my front yard.

You don’t want to know.

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